


Ice, Ice, Baby

by misura



Category: RocknRolla (2008)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2016-12-14
Packaged: 2018-09-09 05:02:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8877070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misura/pseuds/misura
Summary: "It's cool," Mickey said.
"Dry ice is," Roman said. "You, right now, not so much."





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bakcheia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bakcheia/gifts).



> apologies for the terrible title: it just popped into my head and then it wouldn't get out again
> 
> ahem. happy Yuletide, have a treat for a ship I never thought I'd write? (it's aaalll your fault!)

"Fuck's sake," Roman said, once the door had fallen shut and it was just the two of them again.

Mickey considered slugging him. Next, he considered their long partnership, his own abhorrence for senseless violence, and the likeliness of such measures yielding the desired result, which was for Roman to shut the hell up.

"It's cool," he said.

"Dry ice is," Roman said. "You, right now, not so much."

"I've got this. Trust me."

 

(At this moment, or shortly thereafter, in another universe, things spun out of control - it would look pretty touch-and-go for a while, until there was Johnny Quid, back from the never dead to save them all, body and soul, or at least body.

In the aftermath, there was Mickey, considering his life and decided that there was no harm in stepping right up and telling someone that you'd turn over every last fucking stone in the world to find them their heart's desire, be it dry ice or a dozen more ladies of the pole. 

There was a rocker, staring at him, wild-eyed and hopeful, asking him if he fancied having a cup of tea later on, or lunch, or anything really.

Mickey, emboldened by his brush with death, would say, _you_ , and Roman would roll his eyes at the both of them in the background, before returning to the stage to tell the ladies of the pole to go home and take the rest of the Black Label with them.

It would be the stuff of power ballads.)

 

Mickey was a man of many resources. In this, he had spoken nothing but plain truth.

He was limited only by his imagination, the club's budget, and the laws of space, time and nature.

"I've got blue M&Ms. I've got half a dozen love marines. I've got a yellow submarine, a red corvette and a little black bicycle. I've got cats and dogs and rain machines."

"What you have is a fucking crush," Roman said. "What, elephants all sold out at the crazy store?"

"If he asks for one, he'll be wanting it to go on stage with him," Mickey explained with more patience than he felt was called for. "True, we could have it reinforced, but professionals being the kind of people keeping to business hours that needs another day." That it would be an expensive affair, too, went without saying.

Still, no price was too high in love and war, and Mickey was waging both.

"Can't you just get him some fucking flowers or toss your shorts at his head or something?" Roman asked. "I'm just saying, there's easier ways to ask a bloke out, you know?"

"You want to clean up after the show and pick people's underwear off the floor, be my guest," Mickey said.

His was plain white cotton - hardly the stuff with which to impress an excitable, overly demanding rocker who had more charm than talent, not that _that_ was saying much and besides, Mickey knew he might well be biased there, for all that it was his job not to be.

Roman shook his head and went back to work.

Mickey checked his watch and settled down to wait for the first last-minute demand of the evening.

 

"Do you think I was too hard on him yesterday?"

"Five minutes," Roman said. "Five fucking minutes it's been."

"I'm just saying, these artistic types - they can be sensitive, you know," Mickey said. "They've got feelings. He didn't cancel or anything, did he? June, any calls?"

"Dozens," she said. "He hates you, he really hates you, and he's never asking you for another bloody thing ever again, see if he does. Oh, and the London zoo called. Something about a tiger, or an ostrich, maybe? Anyway, whatever it was, you can't have it, but thanks ever so much for asking."

"Popular, ain't you?" Roman said with a quick smile, and a quicker added, "But of course June was just kidding, weren't you, love?"

"I am trying to act like a professional here," Mickey said. "A manager anticipates the needs and wishes of those he manages. That is all."

"Right," Roman said. "Well, in that case, yes, you was being too fucking hard on him yesterday. Just about bit his head off, you did, and for what? All he wanted was a bit of dry ice. Couldn't do his show without it, he said. Had to have it, he said. Polite, wasn't he?"

"He wasn't that polite. Didn't even say 'please' or nothing."

"These artistic types, eh?" Roman said. "So insensitive. Like other people don't got no feelings."

"Have yo got him his dry ice, then?" June asked. "Only I missed it on the list."

"Well, fuck me," Mickey said, reaching for his own copy.

"That's good, that is," Roman told him. "How about you put that first in your apology. Might even get lucky, you might. Stranger things have happened round these here premises."

Mickey scanned the list. "I told you Johnny wasn't dead. Rockers like that, they don't die."

"How 'bout rockers like the one you fancy? He immortal, too?"

"Yes. No." There was no dry ice. "Fuck me. Fuck my life."

 

There not being any cut and clear way to resolve the situation, Mickey had poured himself a drink, and then another, and another.

Next thing he knew, someone was asking for -

" - fireworks?" someone asked. A particular someone.

A very particular, very special someone, who, against all expectations, did not appear to be desirous of dry ice, which was good, since Mickey had seemed to permit it to slip his mind to order any.

"What?" His voice slurred a bit.

"Only I think they'd go quite nicely with that dry ice you got me," the object of his unadmitted affections said. "Which is perfect, by the way, bestest, driest ice in the world, no argument."

"There ain't no dry ice," Mickey said. "Not anywhere."

"Sure there is. Anyway, fireworks tomorrow, yeah? Or glitter? Whatever you can rustle up, it's all good, yeah? No rush, no pressure, no nothing. Whatever comes popping out of your magic hat will suit me fine."

Mickey closed his eyes. "How about coffee?"

"Yes. Absolutely. Any time. Now? Only I got a show about to start, so - I can blow it off. No problem."

As easy as that. Hadn't even taken roses or tossed drawers. Life was good, if also a tad unstable and out of focus. "Get out of here and do your fucking show. The coffee'll wait. I'll wait."

Mickey reckoned that it might be a good idea to attend their first date mostly sober. He wasn't sure how much sobriety he might regain in an hour, but he supposed he'd give it a go and see how far he got.

Story of his life, really, and look how far it had gotten him.


End file.
